A Light in the Window (33 page)

“It ain’t nothin’.”

“No, my friend, it’s quite something. I wish Cynthia could have heard you. And your grandfather. And Miss Sadie. Everybody!”

Dooley shrugged. “Jis’ ol’ school stuff.”

“Blast it, Dooley, how did it make you feel to stand up in front of all those people and belt out ‘God Bless America’?”

He saw that Dooley couldn’t stop the grin that suddenly began spreading across his face. It happened without warning and clearly could not be controlled. “Neat,” he said.

“It was, I suppose, the soap that helped do this marvelous thing ...” Dooley glared at him. “Yeah, I cain’t sing f’r poop usin’ ’at ol’ stuff in th’ kitchen.”

Before he turned the corner at Mule’s house, he looked up and down the street. If he saw anybody coming, he would stop and examine his fingernails or look more closely at the bark on the tree that had grown through the sidewalk.

He had never been into a beauty shop in his life, nor had a woman other than his mother ever cut his hair. There was absolutely nothing wrong with beauty shops, nor with a woman cutting a man’s hair. It’s just that it was too strong a dose for him at one sitting after thirteen years with Joe Ivey who, in spite of the brandy he kept sitting in plain view with the hairspray, gel, and setting mousse, knew what the rector liked and how to deliver it.

Another thing—how much would it cost, even with a 20 percent discount? Twice as much as Joe, most likely, to pay for the new sinks she had put in and the carpet, not to mention those color prints of poodles that Mule said cost two hundred dollars to have framed, even without mats.

Double. That’s what he should be ready to cough up. If Joe was six bucks, Fancy Skinner would be twelve. He had heard that a tip of ten percent was an insult these days. It was a full twenty or don’t bother. That pushed it up to fourteen dollars and forty cents, which he might as well make fifteen, to round it off.

Misery! He would never do this again if his hair grew as long as John the Baptist’s. Puny had absolutely refused to do this thing. She claimed it would look butchered, and she wanted no part in giving him an appearance that was beneath his station. He threatened to do it himself, which had not softened her heart.

Thanks be to God, he didn’t see a soul when he pushed open the door. But the sight of pink carpet and pink walls gave him a distinct sinking feeling. He would turn around and go home and drive to Wesley as hard as he could go. Losing a hubcap or two was no big deal.

He was starting up the driveway when Fancy yelled from an upstairs window, “Are you my three o’clock? Oh, hey, Father, I thought you were my perm. I’ll be right down, don’t go away, make yourself at home. You want a glass of tea? It’s unsweetened, or I can give you sugar, whichever—you tell me. Maybe you’d like a Coke. I have Classic or Diet, what do you think—you tell me.”

If Cynthia Coppersmith had not suggested he go through with this, he would have run and not looked back.

“I like to color-coordinate with my shop,” said Fancy, who was wearing pink tights, a pink cashmere tunic, and pink high-heel shoes with ankle straps.

“I’m glad you’re here. Cuttin’ your hair will put me over th’ top this week.” She swiveled the chair around, so that he stared at himself in a mirror. At Joe Ivey’s, he was able to look out the window at the tops of trees.

“I set a goal every week. Last week I came a bitty bit under. Th’ week before that, a bitty bit over. You never know which way it’ll go. Now that you walked in, I’ll top last week by a hundred dollars!”

His heart sank. Fifteen dollars was clearly a low estimate. Well, let this be a lesson. Let this be a lesson! He felt a wrench in his stomach as she slipped some kind of scarf over his head and around his shoulders. It was such an intense shade of pink it reflected on his face.

“I’ll bet you don’t put this thing on Buck Leeper.”

“Honey, if Buck Leeper ever shows his butt in here again, excuse me, I will personally chase him out with a butcher knife.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Have some gum. It’s right there on th’ magazine. Mule said, ‘Fancy, you don’t have to cut his hair and take his insults. I’ll give you double whatever he spends.’ Was that sweet of Mule or what? So, next time Mister High an’ Mighty walks through that door, I’m runnin’ his tail out of here.
If
he walks through th’ door, that is. I iced him so bad when he bossed me, he might never be back. He might cross th’ street when he sees me comin’.

“Man, have you got a tight scalp. That’s tension. You prob’ly use your brain all th’ time. That’s what does it. Some people, their scalp just rolls around on their head like baggy pantyhose. You want a little massage? See, that feels better already, right? Oops, these nails. Lord, I nearly poked a hole in you. They’re acrylic. Mine won’t grow for shoot. I wouldn’t drink milk when I was a baby. That’s what did it.”

“Who’s your three o’clock?” he asked darkly. Who in God’s name was going to come in here and see him helplessly decked out in this shawl thing?

“Nobody you know, honey. Somebody new from Baltimore. Oh, look at this neck. What a mess. Who does you? Joe Ivey, of course. Joe Ivey has never been to New York City to learn the latest things.”

“You go to New York, then?”

“No, but I read the magazines. Th’ way he cuts you makes your face look too wide. I’m goin’ to just trim it right through here. It’s like some kind of
bush.”

He felt panicked. Why hadn’t he brought a hat? He could have brought that old twill garden hat that folded up flat. He could have slipped out of here and been wearing it when he rounded the corner.

“Please,” he said, sensing that he was about to croak, “don’t do anything different. Like I said, I just want the same thing. Please. Just a trim. Nothing serious.” It was as near to pleading as he’d come in years.

“Oh, phoo, that’s what they all say. You should’ve seen J.C. hunker down in this chair like I was goin’ to snatch his eyeballs out. You trust me on this, OK?”

She scissored something from above his left ear that fell with a positive thump on his shoulder. He was afraid to speak, and why bother? It was too late.

Not bad, he thought, looking at himself in the mirror at home. He had been too shy to examine himself at the beauty shop. Not bad at all. Yes, his face looked thinner; his jaws looked perfectly hollow. And he could hardly believe she charged only six dollars. He was so grateful he had given her ten. Amazing, he thought, peering intently at his head—he even seemed to have more hair on top. Probably the massage.

He heard the bells toll at Lord’s Chapel as he stuffed a canvas bag with a few items from the refrigerator and took a can of water chestnuts from the cabinet.

He missed his dog and his boy. But he was not going to dwell on it. He was going to have supper with Homeless Hobbes. Finally, he was going to have some fun.

Winter had been hard; its ravages were revealed in everything from loose roof tiles to crumbling stone walls. With the late-February sunshine predicted to last three days, the town was busy piling up limbs brought down by ice storms, and stomping around on roofs, looking for snow damage.

The sound of hammering drifted down from Fernbank.

According to rumor, this wasn’t the much-needed new roof the village had hoped for; this was patching.

When one of the Fernbank roofers named what it would cost to replace “the whole shebang,” a hushed reverence moved upon the crowd at the Grill.

They wondered why anyone of Miss Sadie’s age and financial security would live in a place that was falling down around her head. It was a comfort to discuss this familiar topic, which had been a town favorite for years. To a man, they were dumbfounded and amazed that she had gone on so long.

“She ain’t goin’ t’ quit, neither,” said the roofer, as if he had some confidential information from Miss Sadie herself.

The sound of hammers on the hill and the sight of limbs piled along the curbs seemed to awaken new hope in Mitford. Several people reported hearing a robin sing, and Jena Ivey declared that three purple crocuses had bloomed in her backyard.

“Git over it,” said Coot Hendrick. “Winter ain’t done yet, and you can take that t’ th’ bank.”